Her Last Ride
by SplatDragon
Summary: She is tired. So, so tired. She is scared, and she wants to run away from the scent of blood and gunpowder and smoke. Her Person is there, and he looks so sad. She wants to cheer him up, but she is so, so tired. "Thank you."


Something's wrong with her Person.

Something's been wrong with him for a while. Since before they moved the herd next to the lake, when the other humans were still happy and kind. (She missed it)

He reeks of sickness, now. Had started smelling sick all the way back then, and she had _tried_ to tell him, but he just _wouldn't listen_. Humans never listened, she had found, but if ever she had wanted to be understood, it was then.

Her Person isn't on her back.

She hates being ridden by anyone else, only ever giving her Person that privilege.

But her Person is clinging desperately to that woman, his breaths loud and gurgling, and she is reminded of the foal she had lost to the jaws of a cougar. As he had fought to breathe, throat torn out, he had sounded exactly the same. So she allows it, knowing that he wouldn't have let someone else mount her unless he absolutely had to. And she would never question her Person, not now at least, as bullets land near her hooves and men shout behind them.

Her rider keeps trying to urge her forward, to make her run faster, but she refuses. She won't leave her Person, won't go any further ahead of him. He needs her, and she needs him, and that's all she knows.

Her Person makes them stop. His hands don't touch her reins, the woman barely tugging on them, but she _knows _that word and digs in her hooves, her rider turning her to face him.

They talk, and she listens, doesn't understand a word of it. But the one woman is upset as her Person finally removes her from her back, making her mount the other mare. She smells of sadness, and the other one does too. She doesn't know why they seem so sad, why everyone is so upset, what has happened. Wishes she did, so she can help her Person.

Her Person is on her back. He's heavy in her saddle, and he reeks of sickness, of anger and sadness. He smells wounded, that awful _weak-scent _soaking him, although she knows he isn't injured.

He's silent, and she worries, chewing her bit. Her Person is never this quiet, always hums or sings or talks at her, rubs her neck and praises her. But his hands never leave the reins, and the only time he opens his mouth is to cough.

She smells _blood_, she smells _sick_, and she wants to run away. But he's unsteady in her saddle, and she doesn't dare risk throwing him. He needs her, now, and she will give him all she has.

His hands are loose on the reins, and he isn't guiding her. But he smells weak, he smells hurt, and she knows she needs to bring him to camp. The people are different, are crueler and meaner, and she doesn't understand _why _, but every time her Person is hurt, they make him better.

They have to.

This path leads to home, and she knows it. Her Person doesn't guide her, but he doesn't have to; she will always find her way home.

Her Person is angry.

The others are, too. They're angry at her Person, and she doesn't know _why_. She knows enough to understand what a gun is, what it can do, so why is her Person' s beloved Person pointing one at him?

Her Person is pushing her, and she's giving him everything she has.

Bullets whistle in her ears, horses scream in agony and go down. But her Person wants her to move, to keep going, so she ignores it all and charges on.

Her Person is pushing her harder, trying to make her go even faster. His spurs are in her sides, and she's bleeding and afraid, and even as she pushes herself harder than she ever had before, he asks more and more of her.

But she doesn't care, never has, no matter how badly it hurts when his coughs make him dig his spurs into her sides, when he pushes her to run as fast and as far as she can. He had saved her life, and he is her Person, and she'll gladly carry him into Hell itself if he only asks.

Her Person smells of sorrow, and she is so, so tired. She hurts, and wants to rise and flee, to get away from the danger. But her muscles are weak, and her lifeblood is on the grass.

His hands are cradling her head, and his face is wet. Her Person is distressed, and she wishes she could fix it. Could steal his hat and run about, in that way that always makes him laugh.

But she is tired, _so tired_, and can't even raise her head.

_"Thank you." _


End file.
